The Bad In Each Other
by hell0kitten
Summary: In the catastrophic aftermath of a Weapon specific pandemic, one Meister and Weapon pair struggle to repair their broken bond. Warm Bodies inspired UA. Soul/Maka centric.


Prologue - Lonely Boy

 _Well I'm so above you_  
 _And it's plain to see_

\- The Black Keys

* * *

She's lying there in a pool of what appears to be her own blood, her dishwater blonde hair fanning out, gradually blending to a morbid shade of pink at the tips. He crouches down, balancing his weight over his toes, to get a closer look. He takes in her delicate features, the shadow of her pale eyelashes, the spattering of freckles across her nose. He reluctantly notes that she's pretty, in an understated sort of way, and he can't help the fleeting thought that they might have been partners in another time.

He can tell she's a Meister by the aura of her soul wavelength; the way it sits heavy in the air, begging to be devoured. Judging by the calluses on her hands, it's even likely that she was already training with a partner by the time the infection hit. It means she's that much more of a threat to him, but it also begs the question of how she ended up like this and what she was even doing here in the first place. He knows he needs to finish the job, but she looks so vulnerable and her thin form pulls uncomfortably at something in his chest. Depending on how bad she is, maybe he can simply leave her here to bleed out? But just he starts to extend his hand to check for a pulse, her eyelashes flutter and her head lolls to the side closest to him. Before he has a chance to transform his arm or scoot away, her eyes shoot open to reveal the most startling pair of large moss green eyes he has ever seen. He finds himself transfixed, unable to move much less incapacitate the tiny female. There's something in her wide-eyed stare that he can't quite name. Her lips tilt into a slight sort of smile and she breathes out one tiny word, "Soul."

For an instant, he swears the world around him shatters.

* * *

Nobody really knows where ground zero is or, more accurately, was. The first reported cases were hard to track because so many of those victims weren't even registered as Weapons. It was eventually reasoned that the virus only affects those who have gone through puberty; but Weapon genes, while more likely to show up around or shortly after hitting puberty, can show up at any point in someone's life. As a result, the majority of those initial cases had been misdiagnosed with a range of mental disorders, from schizophrenia to bipolar disorder to drug addiction. They were labeled as suffering from various forms of insanity and sent to mental institutions. It wasn't until cases of registered Weapons increased that shit really started to hit the fan.

The DWMA's student population took the greatest hit. They lost almost the entirety of their Weapon, both student and staff, population within a week as well as a large proportion of their Meister population. There had been no time to quarantine those infected or to learn enough about the virus to properly warn anyone. Paired Meisters and loved ones of Weapons infected found themselves slaughtered by those they had trusted the most. In the frantic aftermath of that first onslaught, Weapons who had yet to be infected desperately tried to protect their Meisters by fleeing or isolating themselves, some even resorted to taking their own lives. But their attempts weren't enough. By the time the infection had run its course, the number of Meisters across the globe had dwindled to almost none and those that remained were largely useless without any Weapons to pair with. Worst of all, without any real form of protection, the humans became easy prey.

Sometimes Soul wonders what kind of person he was like before the infection, if he'd had a family and friends. He thinks he might have been enrolled at the DWMA but it's so hard to remember with the madness eroding his brain. Anytime he thinks he might be close to recalling a piece of his past his mind explodes into pain, often causing him to blackout. He wonders if he would even know his name if not for the headband with the black and light blue 'SOUL' patch on it that he'd found himself wearing one day. And while he knows that logically that might not actually be his name, something in his gut feels like that one word belongs to him and so he clings to it like a desperate lifeline to his former self.

It's hard to tell if he is the only Weapon that thinks about these things. He hardly interacts with or even sees other Weapons these days. They have so much space to roam now, and not much to do. The epidemic hardly lasted 2, maybe 3, months before all the Weapons were either infected or dead and had already left scores of massacres in their wake. During the final weeks of contagion, the last vestiges of humanity managed to erect walls in certain metropolitan areas that had contained smaller populations of Weapons. Those individuals left outside had either found their way into one of the newly constructed sanctuaries or had fallen quickly to the bloodlust of the Weapons and Kishin on the outside of the walls. Without a weaker species to torment and pure souls to consume, the remaining Weapons and Kishin were left to their own devices. The majority of them simply go about their business, scavenging for food to survive and further demolishing any remaining remnants of the world pre-pandemic. Others pick fights with each other or themselves, resorting to violence out of restlessness and boredom. For others, the internal pain of the madness is too much. They are the worst, ceaselessly howling in pain, clawing at their eyes and picking at their skin. And yet, sometimes the urge to join them is so tempting it is its own kind of internal hell.

At first, Soul had tried to sleep, hoping that maybe the nothingness would offer some reprieve. But it hadn't then and it doesn't now. Instead of emptiness or dreams, every time he sleeps he merely finds himself in a different form of awake. The black and red checkered floor, the ancient looking record player, and the thick velvet curtains have become so familiar to him they are almost the majority of his reality; though hardly the preferable part. The tacky lighting and scratchy jazz music coming from the record player would be bad enough on their own, but there is also the matter of the other inhabitant of this alternative conscious, the grotesque red little imp in the black double-breasted suit. He often appears dancing out of time with the music, his black fingernails flashing in the dim light as he snaps his fingers. At other times Soul finds him lurking on or by the baby grand piano in the corner, his long arms sagging so that his hands lay crumpled on the floor.

 _What's the matter boy? Don't you know how to play music? Perhaps you could remember how to if you let me lead. All you need is power and you could do anything you want._

He is almost constantly berating Soul to strive for more power and, lately, he's gotten more persistent, forcing his annoying voice into both of Soul's realities. Even as Soul grapples with how to respond to the battered girl in front of him, he can feel the little ogre's unwanted presence in the back of his mind. He is so close to her, still crouching, his right arm hanging in between his knees. It would be so easy to transform just that arm and slice right through her.

 _Can't even take on a weak little girl?_

As if realizing his inner conflict, the girl tries his name again, "S- Soul?" Her eyelids are starting to droop over those magnetizing eyes and he can feel pain blooming across his temple, like he's being pushed underwater. How does she know his name? He almost feels like he might recognize her from somewhere, but the pain increases the more he tries to remember.

 _Don't be a fool, kill her and devour her soul!_

The little ogre is right, it shouldn't matter whether she knows him or not. Her soul could provide so much power. Plus, she would kill him if given half the chance; he should return the sentiment. There is a familiar sensation of warmth and a faint red glow as his arm morphs into a scythe blade, the tip dangling just inches from her nose. He watches her eyes widen marginally and he can feel the inkling of a memory tickling uncomfortably at the edges of his brain.

"No don't, it's me, Maka!"

 _"I am your weapon partner Maka! That means I'm always prepared to die for my Meister!"_

His world explodes into pain and his scythe arm ricochets back into flesh and bone. He can hear himself screaming as he struggles to retain consciousness.

What is this? What's happening to him?

* * *

A/N: I used to have an account up here (Ash Eyes) but I forgot the e-mail I used sooo... Anyways I'm new to writing Soul Eater fan fiction but I'm pretty obsessed with the anime/manga. I don't have too much of an idea of what's going to happen next in this story because I wanted to see if there would be anyone interested in continuing to read before continuing to write. Let me know what you think (positive feedback, negative feedback, should I keep going, etc.) and also if you're at all interested in beta-ing or even bouncing ideas off of each other please feel free to PM me :)


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